


Grey Flannel

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Sherlock Rare Pair Ficlets [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Clothed Sex, Ficlet, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Suit Porn, Tumblr Prompt, clothed/naked kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 04:48:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15016982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: Greg: mostly naked. Mycroft: mostly dressed.





	Grey Flannel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anarfea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarfea/gifts).



> Prompted on Tumblr by anarfea (the only person I would ever write sexy!Mycroft for): "Mystrade Clothed/Naked Kink"

Mycroft likes to watch him undress, despite the pinchable roll at his beltline, the grey hair of his chest, and all the soft places Greg usually keeps covered, and Greg will never be used to it so he hurries, looks at the ceiling and the floor, until after quick fussing and tugging and really wanting to flex his biceps, which are his best part, or at least he thinks so, but in his hurry he only unbuttons his shirtfront–ribbed white vest, low neck and no sleeves, Mycroft had them sent to him because he likes the look of them–and shoves his jeans and pants to his ankles, settles himself wide-kneed in the soft armchair. Licks and rolls his lips between his teeth. Finally looks up at Mycroft looking down at him.

“Handsome,” he comments, and it names Greg and describes him both at once, that talent Mycroft has for employing every possible meaning simultaneously, a habit born of a need for plausible deniability, and further in the past, to cover his arse.

“Am I?” Cool hard man, two can play. Greg knows his smile gives him away. It’s a privilege to sit half-naked in front of this man, to be gazed at appraisingly, though Greg sees deeper into those steely eyes, and knows himself to be adored.

With careful, elegant motions Greg would think are for show if they weren’t Mycroft’s typical ones–he is careful and elegant in all he does, unless Greg is pleased he do otherwise–Mycroft slides his jacket buttons free, lets it slide down his arms, creases it in half just so, and lays it across the arm of the nearby sofa. His shirt is crisp and a shade of blue paler and brighter than his eyes, with long cuffs fastened with smart and heavy-looking cufflinks. His waistcoat is pigeon-grey pinstripe, classic grey flannel, his trousers the same. The chain of his grandfather’s watch dull gold, his necktie pinned in place with a bar that looks dagger-like and dangerous and which Greg longs to catch between his teeth.

Mycroft smooths his slender palms down the front of his chest, the slim sides of his belly, and Greg hums a brittle, needy noise that makes him laugh at himself and shift in his seat, self-conscious and wanting. Mycroft gifts him a foxy smile. Without preamble, Mycroft lowers himself to one knee, half-knelt there by the puddle of Greg’s trousers, tangling his feet to keep him in place. There is the soft scratch of Mycroft’s flannel-clad knee against the hair of Greg’s shin, and as he strokes Greg’s thighs from hip to knee–slow and serpentine, fingers curling and uncurling to scratch through the hair–Greg feels the slip and catch of his starched sleeves here and there on his bare leg. As their mouths meet–open-lipped but they keep their tongues tucked away–Greg puts hands on his back, and the slope of his shoulder, flannel and cotton all fitted and warm from the heat of his body. Mycroft shoves up the front of Greg’s vest to the top edge of his chest, then leans into him so that Greg can feel the edges of his waistcoat buttons, catching the hair of Greg’s chest, abrading his nipple but not enough.

Greg squeezes his thighs against Mycroft’s sides to feel the hush of fabric against his bare skin. The watch chains swings against Greg’s prick.

When Mycroft’s mouth is on him at last, Greg will tuck his fingers beneath the back of Mycroft’s shirt collar, there under the edge, a little envelope, and Greg will feel for the tiny row of stitches, scratch it with the edge of his thumbnail. Mycroft’s trousers brushing hard against the skin of Greg’s shin in time with a gentle rock of his body, the sweep of his elegant neck as he descends and draws back, his tongue like wet velvet, and Greg can see the heel of his shoe when he looks past Mycroft’s shoulder, and the sole just there at the toe, worn from walking the pavement, the only roughed-up bit of Mycroft’s perfect ensemble.

Greg’s fingers follow the silk of his necktie, there under his shirt collar, reach around and slide up the front of his long throat, and Mycroft looks up at him, mouth full and eager, mildly smiling before his lashes flutter down and he returns to his work. Greg’s fingers slip over the bubbled fold of his double-Windsor, down the silky length until he finds the edge of the waistcoat and thrusts in the flat of his hand, leaning forward over Mycroft’s bowed, bobbing head, and Greg rubs rough fingers over Mycroft’s clothed nipple, knowing the exact shade of pink this will elicit, his hand tucked in tight there, near Mycroft’s fast-beating heart.


End file.
